


Red Strings of Fate

by DarkAkumaHunter



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullrian Mini-Bang 2015, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Kidnapping, M/M, Red Lyrium, Red Templars, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAkumaHunter/pseuds/DarkAkumaHunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's surrounded by cancerous red lyrium that Dorian has his first proper conversation with the Commander. He can only hope that the lyrium in his veins doesn't signal their last.</p><p>Prompt: Red Lyrium.</p><p>Written for the Cullrian mini-bang on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Strings of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all.  
> There's art for this fic which you can find with the tumblr posting [here](http://theemptymancometh.tumblr.com/post/129103044476/fyeahcullrian-red-strings-of-fate-cullrian).
> 
> It seems like none of my italics and stuff carried over when my partner submitted it for the tumblr posting, so even if you've read this before it'll be better with all the italics for tone and emphasis and whatnot.

Hurtling through the time-stream had _not_ been on Dorian’s to-do list when he wormed his way into aiding the Inquisition at Redcliffe. He knelt unsteadily in murky, knee-deep water, his staff slammed into the chipped stones of the floor, hands wrapped tightly around it as he fought to remain somewhat upright. His entire body ached. It felt as though he’d been slammed into a wall, repeatedly. Everything was spinning, just slightly. He breathed deeply, slow inhalations of stale air. Somewhere behind him Lady Trevelyan groaned, water splashing faintly as she shifted. She was no doubt in a similar state of disoriented agony.

When the world settled into blessed stillness once more, Dorian dragged himself to his feet. Being mostly out of the water only served to emphasise how very drenched he now was. His moustache twitched in distaste, and he cursed softly in Tevene. Wet clothes were a nightmare, but Dorian got the feeling that they were truly the least of his worries for the time being.

The scrape of metal on stone pulled him from his introspection. He turned, watching Trevelyan return one of her daggers to its strap, keeping one firmly in hand as she righted herself. Her dark red hair clung to her head, and water dripped down her pale face. In the flickering half-light she looked particularly terrified.

“Dorian.” Her voice cracked, wavering, as she spoke. He barely knew her, but she had appeared like a pillar of confidence to Dorian. Hearing proof of her terror wasn’t making their situation any easier to decipher. “Where are we?”

“Well, Marissa my dear, _that_ is one question I may actually have an answer for.” Formality was an unnecessary burden in a time of crisis, and he’d stopped standing on ceremony when he left Tevinter. She didn’t seem inclined to protest the use of her first name. Dorian was just glad she’d asked something he could actually give a somewhat definitive answer to. “If I were to hazard a guess, this is some rather familiar architecture. I would go as far as to say that I believe we are still in Redcliffe Castle, though obviously not the upper levels any longer. The dungeons, perhaps?”

Marissa seemed to take his guess at face value, as she nodded. Her fingers tightened around the grip of the dagger she had clenched in her right hand. “The only way to find out for sure is to go out that door.” She gestured towards the only door in the room that didn’t lead into a flooded cell. It was wooden, and while it still appeared relatively sturdy, it had clearly seen better days.

Dorian felt about for the pull of the Fade, gathering his energy. He cast a barrier upon Marissa. “Ladies first.”

She rolled her eyes at him. A surge of relief rolled across Dorian like a wave. The shock was beginning to wear off; Marissa was coming back into herself. They’d been on the precipice of panic, but now he felt they were in the clear, well away from that ledge.

She inched forward silently; well, as silently as one could while walking through deep water. Dorian wasn’t ashamed to admit he couldn’t quite mimic her efforts at stealth - flair had always been more his thing. As soon as her hand pushed against the door she disappeared from sight, a rogue technique Dorian had come to admire greatly.

The precaution proved necessary, as an armoured guard situated in the hallway beyond turned towards them at the sound of the creaking wood and gave a great shout of discovery, a war cry. Bending the Fade around him, Dorian gathered a fireball in the palm of his hand. Before he had a chance to launch it, the air rippled behind the guard, and they fell to the ground with a strangled grunt, Marissa materialising with bloodied dagger in hand. Dorian allowed the flame to dissipate reluctantly; for a moment he’d felt almost warm again.

Marissa crouched, wiping her blade on the exposed fabric of the downed guard’s pants. Dorian ignored her, moving through the much drier area, testing each door that he passed by. Not _all_ of them were locked, but most of them were. The hallway stretched and curved, but Dorian wasn’t keen on letting Marissa out of sight to check the rest. When he arrived back at her side, she was rummaging around in the guard’s pockets.

“That’s definitely Tevinter armour.” Dorian cupped his chin thoughtfully. “So unless we’ve been transported to the Imperium - highly unlikely, the decour would be much nicer, even in the dungeons - then it’s safe to say we are, most assuredly, still in Redcliffe Castle. I can’t imagine this is what Alexius wanted, however, regardless of how unwelcoming all that water is. There would be nothing to gain from transporting you from the hall to down here.”

Marissa glanced up at him. “So the amulet malfunctioned? Was he trying to drop us halfway across the Waking Sea?”

“As amusing as that thought is, no. That amulet was very familiar. It looked… I’ve mentioned that Alexius was once my mentor, no? We were working together on a project: time manipulation. Nothing ever came of it, we could never get it to work past theory. But that’s what the amulet looked like. Regardless of what he _intended_ to do with it, I’m unsure as to our current ‘when’. Perhaps time did not shift at all, as the castle is still inhabited by Alexius’ men.”

The jingle of keys broke Dorian from his train of thought. Marissa held a ring of keys she’d found in the guard’s pockets, a grim look adorning her face. “Well then, let’s go and find out.”

With keys in hand it wasn’t difficult to explore the somewhat trashed lower levels. There was a skirmish here and there, but they made a decent team considering they had almost no prior experience fighting in tandem with each other. The more they looked, the less promising the situation appeared.

Initially, alongside the pain, confusion, disorientation, and, yes, fear, Dorian had been a little bit excited. Intellectually speaking, the whole experience was fascinating. But as time dragged on, all Dorian found was a sinking feeling in his gut as reality re-exerted itself over him. This was no academic wonderland. It was dark and curious devastation instead.

Eventually they found the cells; the ones in use. As in the rest of the castle, these too were filled with crystals of red lyrium, growing from the ceiling, the floor, the walls… even some of the people.

Scattered throughout the cell blocks they found the people they had, subconsciously, been looking for.

The stories they told were dreadful, but not entirely unexpected. Dorian listened to them all with a blank face and clenched jaw. Seeker Pentaghast, Commander Cullen, and The Iron Bull, the trio who had accompanied Marissa to Redcliffe - three quarters of the War Council and an intimidation factor - had been imprisoned the longest. They told of a year in captivity, a year where they thought all hope to be lost, a year of destruction. The others, a storytelling dwarf, a Warden, an Elven Apostate, they’d been captured later on, and brought with them tales from outside of Redcliffe, of the spread of the rifts, and the rise of the demons.

Their tumultuous trip had sent them hurtling a year into the future. Twelve long months wherein there had been no one with the ability to fight the rifts, no one to keep hope spreading. It struck Dorian then, as they spoke in turn, just how much Thedas’ resistance against the rift and the demons relied upon Marissa Trevelyan, how much pressure was heaped atop her without so much as a by your leave.

If the responsibility was weighing her down, she didn’t show it.

Gathering information and gaining their trust turned out to be two very different battles. The information was freely given, the majority of it supposedly common knowledge that harmed no one by its repetition. Trust was a much steeper slope.

Initially Cassandra refused to believe they were truly there. Dorian could understand the sentiment, surrounded as they were by the pulsing, sickly veins of red lyrium - such a long period of exposure to it would undoubtedly cause hallucinations, and it seemed they had happened before. Unlocking her cell greased the wheels of cooperation. For The Iron Bull, the promise of vengeance before his inevitable death was the only encouragement he needed to follow them. The presence of other familiar faces calmed Cassandra somewhat, though it was clear to Dorian she was unwilling to fully trust in her senses.

It was Cullen’s reaction that surprised Dorian. He took a long, hard look at them, and immediately offered his assistance. Dorian watched, stunned, as Marissa unlocked the Commander’s cell, until his curiosity simply couldn’t be contained.

“Why are you so willing to trust us?” he asked, waving a ring-laden hand through the air to emphasise his confusion. Normally it would be a good thing, but considering the circumstances…

Cullen’s gaze was steady when he met Dorian’s eyes. Even after so long, imprisoned in less than ideal circumstances, he was quick to slip back into his military persona. “If this were a hallucination,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here.”

Dorian was taken aback by the blunt retort, though it made sense. He’d heard the Commander’s pleas to reach out to the Templars instead of the Mages, his frustration not so easily contained by the stone walls at Haven. A Fereldan Templar through and through, a Tevinter mage, still mostly a stranger, would never star in a rescue daydream.

Dorian’s lips curled into an imitation of a smile, impressed and slightly bitter. “Touché.”

It wasn’t until they were traversing the castle once more that Cullen spoke again, he and Dorian guarding the rear of their little party while Cassandra and Marissa took point.

“I believe I know what Alexius intended to do with that lightshow of his,” he explained softly, a story for Dorian’s ears only. “To erase Lady Trevelyan from existence, somehow or another. To destroy our chance of success entirely. True, he may have succeeded somewhat, but you saved her. Protected her. Kept her alive. Even if that doesn’t help _us_ , here and now, that means there is still hope left for Thedas. That this won’t happen again.” Cullen paused, and glanced over at Dorian. There was so much weight in those eyes. Belief. Trust. Expectation. Hope. A sense of resignation. Pride. Exhaustion. Dorian couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds, suddenly overwhelmed.

“I didn’t know this would happen.”

“I know. None of us did. But you helped where we couldn’t. A man going against his homeland because his morals dictate he do so.” Cullen smiled thinly, a weary, grim expression. Dorian wondered briefly what it might look like if he were actually happy, away from this castle and certain death. “I know this request will hold no weight if you succeed in returning to your own time, but it would be a relief, for me at least, to know that you are on our side, preventing this from happening again. Would you continue to guard her back, in case there comes a time where we, once again, cannot?”

Dorian’s breath caught, momentarily, in his throat. This request from a man walking to his death should have been a burden, had Dorian not already made up his mind to join the Inquisition in their efforts. But it was so heartfelt, so honest and selfless a request, that Dorian was a little startled by it. He hadn’t pegged the Templar as a mage hater, exactly, but he’d assumed he kept his trust especially close to his chest when it came to them. To be handing that trust on a silver platter to someone from the _Imperium_ , well, it seemed oddly momentous. Would the other Cullen be as trusting?

“I’ll see this through to the end, whenever that end may be.”

Cullen nodded. They didn’t speak again.

**oOoOo**

It was devastating, seeing the state Alexius had fallen into, but Dorian was nothing if not good at compartmentalising, and the anguish that came with seeing him was hastily locked away where no one would ever see it. That didn’t make the ensuing battle any easier to deal with.

But worse than the battle, worse than seeing the spymaster, Leliana, slit Felix’s throat, was the imminent knowledge that, while he and Marissa were to travel back through time, the rest of her - their - Inquisition comrades would be charging to their deaths. It was a bitter and heavy knowledge, and Dorian could well understand Marissa’s reluctance to allow them to fight alone. He found himself a little torn as well; there were so many things he wanted to know while he still possessed the trust to be told them. It didn’t sit right, watching their turned backs as he raced against time to fix the amulet. But the Commander glanced back at them over his shoulder, and Dorian knew he couldn’t stop, couldn’t let Marissa fall to her desire to protect, to help.

He tried to pretend he couldn’t hear them being cut down as he dragged Marissa through the portal, to a place where, hopefully, none of this had yet occurred.

**oOoOo**

Being back in the present was… anti-climactic, to say the least. For sure, it ticked all the boxes of an excellent dramatic entrance, but that’s really all it was. Alexius crumbled when he saw them, and surrendered without a fight. Dorian hadn’t _wanted_ to fight his mentor, _again_ , but that didn’t make the situation any less… plain. It felt like his whole world axis had shifted while in the future that would never be, but of course no one else could tell; they didn’t know him, or what happened, or what he bore witness to. All Marissa had returned with was a thirst for vengeance, for success, a drive which, harnessed by her and her surprising level-headedness, would only be a good thing for their cause. She, too, was completely unaware of what Dorian had experienced, despite having been beside him the entire time.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset.

The Inquisition wrapped things up as best they could in Redcliffe, and Dorian stayed out of the way as much as he was able. He was offered no words of thanks, nor was he commended on his survival. It was the general sort of cold shoulder Dorian was fairly used to, and he was no longer bothered by it. He was, after all, a mage from Tevinter, and it was mages from Tevinter who started the whole mess. If he had become a casualty, none would have cared.

No one except Marissa, who had taken a liking to him, and apparently considered their jaunt through time to be a decent bonding experience. She left a lot of the nit-picky arrangements to the rest of the council, and tried to spend time with him while they remained in Redcliffe.

Nevertheless, Dorian was relieved when they finally headed back to Haven.

**oOoOo**

Dorian’s official induction into the Inquisition was met with about as much enthusiasm as his general presence had garnered beforehand, which is to say, with much grumbling and no small amount of hostility. But Dorian had been in Thedas for months now, and even before then, back in Tevinter, his presence had not always been appreciated. The discontent was nothing new.

Instead, Dorian spent his time in observation. He watched the Commander’s lips twist into a frown whenever Marissa asked him to accompany her on an excursion, commendably swallowing back whatever protestations he had about it. He listened to Solas muse about walking the Fade. He endured the mutterings of Inquisition soldiers when they passed him by. He watched as they grew, in number and strength. As the weeks passed, he bore witness to Cullen’s acceptance, as he proved time and time again that he wasn’t endangering Marissa by being present on missions. He watched the acceptance turn to confidence.

Through it all Dorian had ample time to think. Mostly, he pondered the two versions of Commander Cullen that he was acquainted with.

Despite the differing hardships they two had lived through, they still trusted the same - wholeheartedly, and without reservation. That Dorian had managed to prove himself twice over, and receive even the tiniest piece of that trust, was, to him, an astounding accomplishment. He felt undeserving of it, somehow, as though he were sullying something pure.

Dorian hadn’t come to Thedas looking for acceptance, but it seemed he’d stumbled across a tiny handful of people who appreciated his company. He was trying not to jinx that.

**oOoOo**

Once they got to Skyhold, after the breach and Corypheus and all the chaos that came with those dark days, things began to move forward. They’d been forcefully uprooted from their base of operations, but, despite Skyhold’s dilapidated state of being, the stronghold appeared to give the Inquisition a feeling of permanence. Everything was made official in a rush as they settled in - Marissa was now _Inquisitor_ Trevelyan, instead of an Agent of the Inquisition, a title she seemed reluctant to claim, but bore it anyway with that steadfastness of hers that left no room for failure - and for a time Dorian allowed himself to be swept along with it.

Initially outings were put aside in favour of attempting construction and repairs on the areas of Skyhold that would be in constant use. After everything Dorian was glad for the reprieve. He’d gone through more emotional turmoil over the last week or so than he ever could have imagined experiencing in Thedas - centering almost entirely around the near-death of the woman who was fast becoming his nearest and dearest friend - and the chance to take a break and deal with it all with some semblance of privacy was greatly appreciated.

**oOoOo**

It took three days for Dorian to discover Skyhold possessed a large library, and less than a week to fashion a spot for himself between the shelves, next to a grand window. It was the best place to be alone without actively appearing to be avoiding the rest of the Inquisition forces. For a time it served him well, with only Marissa seeking him out on occasion to share a few words, short minutes of conversation. Few people ventured into the library, most bypassing it in order to travel between the upper and lower levels, and so Dorian was, for the most part, left to his own devices.

That changed when, after a handful of weeks, with construction and repairs coming along - if not smoothly, then at least with decent pace - Marissa took it upon herself to coax him away from the library as often as she could. At first he ignored her attempts, brushing them off with excuses of research that she had no way of verifying or denying, but she proved to be every bit as stubborn as he himself was, and even more persistent. Although he had no desire to actively subject himself to the mistrusting stares and whispers that more often than not accompanied his presence, Dorian caved to her wishes with less reluctance than he had been expecting. She truly had burrowed her way into his heart as a dear friend.

It started with walks around Skyhold, and afternoons in Marissa’s elaborate quarters where they could speak in privacy, away from the curious ears of librarians and researchers, and the doubtful, scrutinising gazes of Fiona and Mother Giselle. She took him to the garden, which he had to admit to not knowing existed, not having bothered to explore the place much after locating the library and his allotted bedroom. She coaxed him into games of chess after long meetings in the war room.

It was the chess that changed things.

Dorian hadn’t exactly sat down and made a conscious decision to avoid Cullen; it was really just a side-effect of locking himself away in the library and avoiding _everyone_. He didn’t have any particular reason to want to avoid him, either. The Commander was attractive and intriguing and Dorian thought many things about him, but none of them were bad. He simply lacked a decent reason to seek out his company.

But then, when Dorian was lounging by the chess set one afternoon, a hastily scribbled note of apology from Marissa on the table next to the board - something had come up that required her immediate attention, and she couldn’t make their pre-arranged game - Cullen appeared, wandering through the garden. Dorian wasn’t sure whether to make his presence known or leave Cullen to his thoughts, but the decision was taken out of his hands when the Commander laid eyes on him.

“How unusual,” Cullen called by way of greeting, changing direction to head towards where Dorian was seated. “And here I thought you lived in the library now. Had a change of heart?”

Dorian chuckled, stretching his legs out before him. He didn’t often converse with Cullen outside of strictly mission-based exchanges, but when he had he’d noticed the man carried a decent sense of humour that he hadn’t initially expected.

“Hardly,” he drawled back. “I was dragged here against my will and promptly abandoned. To think, someone would be willing to abandon _this_.” He swept one ring-laden hand down his body and gave a put-upon sigh, which only earned him a small smirk and a raised eyebrow from Cullen. Dorian rolled his eyes and nudged the letter. “Marissa thinks enticing me with chess is the only way to get me out of the library, but her schedule is unpredictable.”

“I don’t believe the Inquisitor knows how to say no,” Cullen mused, leaning back in the chair he’d taken across the table. “But since we are both here, would you be open to a change of partners?”

Dorian leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Is that a challenge, Commander?”

“I’m told I’m rather good at chess.” Cullen was smiling. He was definitely proposing a challenge.

“Don’t count on it,” Dorian retorted, returning the pieces to their rightful places. “I’m going to win.”

And Dorian did win. Eventually. After four matches and ample ‘creative methods’ and ‘Tevinter rules’ which Cullen laughingly called cheating and Dorian called smart thinking. It had been exhilarating. Marissa was notoriously bad at chess; she knew the rules and how the pieces moved, but she had zero knack for strategy. But Cullen was more than just ‘rather good’ at chess, he was better than Dorian was - though he wouldn’t admit that out loud.

They made arrangements for future games, and Dorian swore he’d even the score next time around.

**oOoOo**

Dorian won occasionally, but he never caught up.

Usually such an impressive losing streak would frustrate him, or cause him to switch partners out of spite, but not with Cullen. He doubted anyone else would suffice as a partner even if he wanted to change.

They talked during their games, about all sorts of things. When missions were back in full swing the games became welcome distractions from the constant coming and going, a moment of rest in a safe place with good company.

Dorian hadn’t forgotten the Cullen from Redcliffe, nor the curiosity that encounter had sparked within him, but he no longer felt like he was trying to find something when he interacted with the Commander. Before, they had been allies, but now, they were friends. And oh, but friends were dangerous, particularly the charming ones who didn’t realise quite how easy they were to like.

He had a history of falling in love with friends. And that history had taught him better than to act on it. So if he fancied his heart fluttered a little when Cullen laughed, his whole face alight, well, he could always keep it to himself. It was what he was good at.

**oOoOo**

As if Dorian needed _more_ reasons to despise Emprise du Lion, their latest expedition into the frozen region had stumbled into an ambush. There had been reports of smugglers and army deserters in the region, and Scout Harding had been guiding them to one of their suspected outposts when the lyrium-infected creatures they called Templars made their presence known. Harding was a sharp-shooter with a bow, but even with her presence they were still a measly five against the unprecedented wave of attackers.

Dorian thought plenty of things as they launched into what promised to be a difficult and dangerous battle. He wondered whether to be relieved or frustrated that it was a Templar ambush and not a Venatori one. He cursed the still mostly-human Templars and their magic suppression techniques. He bemoaned the fact that Marissa never wanted to take extra soldiers and scouts with them from any of the various outposts they had set up in the area.

They were engulfed from all sides, so Dorian’s first priority - aside from not dying - was to put some distance between himself and the enemy party, or he’d forever be blocking blows with his staff and bashing Templars around the head instead of incinerating them in bursts of flame. The others - strong warriors and rogues impossibly quick on their feet - dived straight into the fray, their only option to fight and beat them back. Thankfully that drew most of their attention away from Dorian, who fought his way towards higher ground in order to get a better view of the flow of battle. He would have preferred something that protected his back, but they didn’t really have the luxury of time for him to find somewhere else.

Dorian had no idea how much time passed, only that Scout Harding had joined him and was running worryingly low on arrows. The others, when he caught glimpses of their faces through the masses, seemed exhausted, but none of them would easily bow out of the fight. He’d long stopped attempting to target individuals, sticking to area spells in an attempt to incinerate, or at least incapacitate, as many enemies as possible in order to give the others a fighting chance at success. He didn’t doubt they would come out on top in the end - what he worried about was the cost. Would this be the moment one of their inner circle fell? Not in the destruction of Haven, but in an ambush that might as well have occurred in the middle of nowhere?

Harding was focussing on picking off enemies in the Inquisitor’s blind spot with the remainder of her arrows. Dorian would have joined suit, but he was dangerously exhausted already, and his magic lacked his usual pinpoint precision as the Fade fought his grasp and slipped between his fingers. He refused to even imagine the consequences that might arise if he accidentally wounded Marissa by being too prideful to admit he was becoming more a hindrance than a help.

He stuck the bladed tip of his staff into the snow before him, arms burning with exertion from his usually flamboyant casting. Harding perched near the very edge of the small hilltop they stood upon, the edge in front of her a sharp vertical drop to where everyone else was congregated. One wrong move and she’d tumble down to join them, but she was as still as a statue, moving only to carefully take aim and to string her next arrow.

Hands clasped around the polished wood, Dorian took a breather, just for a moment. His vision was blurring ever so slightly, and he was reluctant to down another lyrium potion. With his exhaustion this bad already, he’d be asking for trouble by taking any more stamina enhancers. He just needed to let this moment pass and push through it - he would not be the first to give up.

Unfortunately, with nothing and no one protecting his back, letting his guard down for even a second was incredibly dangerous. He heard it as his eyes drifted closed - the crunch of heavy boots in icy snow. He shouldn’t have been able to hear footsteps over the sound of clashing metal and shouting voices down below; it meant they were close. Too close for comfort.

Dorian’s eyes shot open. “ _Venhedis!_ ” He yanked his staff from the snow, stumbling as he turned. His vision blurred entirely, white and red and grey. A sharp intake of breath sounded behind him - Harding - but his head was spinning, he couldn’t see straight, and he was honestly surprised he was still standing at all seeing as he could _feel_ his legs quivering (perhaps turning had been one move too many, the step that tipped the scales). Dorian closed his eyes, hard. When he opened them he could, for the most part, see clearly again.

Unfortunately, it was too late to do anything about what he saw. Before him stood a towering Templar, with bulging muscles that no human should ever possess, and an alarming chunk of red lyrium growing from their shoulder. Dorian gripped his staff tightly in both hands as it continued its approach - four metres, three metres, two metres - but he was entirely drained. There wasn’t even the barest flicker of flame left inside him. If he fought, he would fall. But he could at least attempt to stand his ground. It was the only option he had left.

An arrow whistled past Dorian’s ear. It hit the approaching Templar in the shoulder, but they didn’t appear to even feel it. He was surprised Harding had bothered trying. He knew he was in the way, that the only effective shot would likely be straight through the heart, and she didn’t have the time to move somewhere she might actually get a shot in from. An arrow she knew would be a wasted effort. If he made it out of this, he’d remember to thank her. Maybe buy her some hideous Fereldan ale.

His staff splintered, then snapped, from a downward thrust of the Templar’s sword. Dorian hadn’t the strength to let go, hands frozen in front of him, clutching tightly to two now useless lengths of wood. Harding shouted something - the words were lost to the ringing in his ears. They swung again. A forceful blow struck the side of Dorian’s head. His legs collapsed beneath him. He felt grotesque fingers digging into the fabric over his shoulder, and then he felt nothing at all.

**oOoOo**

Worry was Cullen’s default state whenever Inquisition parties were out traversing the countryside. He strove not to allow it to interfere with the work he still had to do in their absence, but fear curled into a tight ball inside his chest all the same, always in the back of his mind. It wasn’t that he expected things to go wrong - he knew they were all good warriors and trusted them to handle themselves - but Kirkwall had taught him that strength and trust wasn’t always enough, and that trouble was the most unpredictable thing in life.

So far everything had been, well, not _great_ , but incidents had fallen under acceptable parameters for calculated risks, and nothing had gotten _too_ out of hand, save for the scouts going missing in the Fallow Mire and people constantly getting injured during repair work on Skyhold.

Then a messenger bird arrived from Emprise du Lion.

The crows came and went all the time, and on the off chance Cullen was outside to notice one flying in, they were never a cause for immediate concern. If it was important a soldier would be sent to bring him a report about it, and that would be that. Only this time it was different.

Leliana herself personally delivered the letter to his office, a purposefully unreadable look on her shadowed face. That struck a note of urgency in itself. Leliana never delivered messages; she’d always inferred it was, in general, a waste of her time. He took it from her and read the missive three times in quick succession. The repetitions meant nothing to him. Only a handful of things stood out in his mind.

_Red Templars. Ambush. Dorian captured. Status unknown. Injuries attained in battle._

Cullen’s fingers crinkled the paper. Leliana’s expression was grim when he looked back up at her.

“The Iron Bull claims to be in perfect health. For now I’m taking that at face value. Cassandra has broken her shield arm. Inquisitor Trevelyan dislocated her shoulder and attained multiple lacerations that may impede her ability to fight. I’m requesting they return to Skyhold to heal. They’re of no use in the field while injured.”

The fear clawed at his heart. He was glad no one was dead, of course, but…

“What about Dorian?”

Leliana gave him a _look_. It was one of her piercing ones, an ‘I know something you don’t’ look, or ‘I know something you don’t want me to’. Cullen didn’t know what to make of it, refused to dwell on it under the current circumstances.

“The Inquisitor has expressed her wish that we launch a rescue mission. Given that she will in all likelihood be unable to go on it herself, the final decision rests with you. There are those who will think badly of you for risking Inquisition forces to retrieve a Tevinter mage, however-”

“I don’t give a damn about what they think!” Cullen shouted, offended and terrified at the thought of abandoning someone under his command, a comrade, a friend, without even attempting to help them. “It’s Josephine’s job to appease the nobles. Mine is to protect our people.”

Leliana’s lips curled up, an amused smirk curving her mouth. Cullen immediately regretted his outburst, but refused to back down. They were talking about someone’s life. An important someone.

“If you had let me finish,” Leliana continued lightly, “I was going to say I doubted you would pander to those who would rather you left someone to die in captivity just because of where they came from. You are not that sort of Commander. That I know well.”

Cullen cringed, now well and truly embarrassed. “Oh.”

“That being said, it _will_ be a dangerous mission. We currently have no idea where they might have taken him. We’re assuming he’s still alive only because he was taken. You must steel yourself for the fact that it may be too late by the time the rescue party reaches Emprise du Lion. It will be a regrettable loss, even I can admit that, but we cannot guarantee his life.”

Cullen frowned, crushing the missive in one hand as he folded his arms. He knew that. He’d been a Templar for a long time, he’d lived through the Kirkwall Rebellion. There were no certainties. _He knew that!_ But as Leliana reiterated it, his stomach turned. Somehow this felt much more real than any other mission he’d been put in charge of. This life, held in the palm of his hands, terrified him more than any other.

No words left his mouth, but Leliana was perceptive, always had been.

She inclined her head. “That is all. I shall take my leave and make preparations to oversee the Inquisitor’s return.”

“Right,” Cullen allowed, off-balance, unsettled. “Thank you.”

The door closed quietly behind her. Cullen still flinched at the bang of wood on stone. He locked it without thinking, then locked the other two doors as well. He needed to be alone.

**oOoOo**

Though ideally Cullen would have liked to work with the Inquisitor to form his plans, it would have taken far too long to wait until she returned to start. Every second that ticked over where he wasn’t diving through piles of reports on Templar activity in Emprise du Lion, or marking things on maps, or interrogating anyone who had ever been there on their experiences, felt like wasted time. Every minute of uncertainty, of rest, worsened the anxiety in his gut and the fear in his heart.

It reached a crescendo two days before the Inquisitor’s party was due to return, when he began forgoing sleep entirely in order to focus all of his time on planning rescue strategies. He was a wreck.

When his subordinates were in danger Cullen had always been able to keep a level head, retain his calm and rational thought. But Dorian wasn’t a subordinate. He was a friend, a good friend, someone whose loss would be emotionally devastating. It had always been harder to maintain professional and emotional boundaries when it was about someone close to him, but this was the worst. He just didn’t know what to do anymore.

Cullen wasn’t even surprised when his door was forced open in the wee hours of the morning. He just sat at his desk, head in his hands, and let it happen. It turned out to be Varric, a set of lockpicks in hand, and Leliana, wearing one of her sternest looks.

“This is ridiculous,” Leliana snapped without preamble. “You do more harm than help by acting like this. With the Inquisitor out of action who exactly do you think is going to be leading this mission, hmm? Our military commander, of course. But at this rate you will only serve to get people killed needlessly. You cannot operate without sleep, and you require food more than once a day.”

“She’s right Curly,” Varric chimed in, tone jarringly serious compared to his usual joking demeanour. “I know you’re worried about Sparkler. Hell, I think the whole Inquisition knows you’re worried about him. But this? This is getting you nowhere. What good’s this going to come to if you work yourself to death before even leaving Skyhold?”

Cullen sighed, tired and defeated. His fingertips dragged against his face as he forced himself to look up.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted softly.

“Sleep,” Leliana ordered firmly. “You will rest, the Inquisitor will look over your plans, you will gather your troops, and you will launch your attack. Take everything one step at a time. Don’t look too far forward, and definitely do not look back. You’ll just lose your head again if you do.”

“And I have special permission to knock you out if you don’t comply, so please, by all means, keep working.”

Exhaustion was weighing down all his limbs, sleep dragging at his eyelids. Cullen didn’t really have it in him to protest. For all of a moment he _did_ consider asking Varric to knock him unconscious regardless, for he wasn’t sure he had the energy to climb the ladder to the loft above his office, but he wouldn’t get any real rest that way.

He sighed, carefully sitting back in his chair. “Take the notes with you then. I wouldn’t put it past you to simply lock me in here so I can’t oversee the Inquisitor’s arrival, and I haven’t the energy to argue.” Cullen rose slowly from his chair. He pointed up. “If I fall, however, you are entirely to blame.”

Varric chuckled, muttering something under his breath. Considering it was likely either something insulting or a way to turn him falling from the loft into a book plot Cullen wasn’t disappointed to have missed it.

Still.

He glanced over his research and maps from the side of his desk. The ache in his chest grew at the thought of abandoning it, even just for a few hours, but the pounding in his head was a convincing enough motivator to grab a bit of rest. That didn’t stop him feeling guilty about it.

Leliana plucked some of his summarised plans off his desk and let without a word, only a pointed stare that promised trouble if he didn’t obey her instructions. It took him longer than he cared to admit to notice Varric hadn’t followed after her. In his defence he was pondering the merit of sleeping on the floor of his office versus attempting the ladder to get to an actual bed, and his sleep-deprived brain didn’t care if someone was still hanging around when he made up his mind.

“Listen,” Varric said out of the blue, serious again. “Sparkler would probably be flattered by this panic you’ve worked yourself into, but you and I both know that, deep down, he’d be upset about it too. He’d show it in some strange, indecipherable manner - or heck, maybe he’d throw a book at you, that’d be fun - but I meant it. You’re doing no one any favours like this. Breathe. Sleep. When you can think straight again, go fetch our mage. It’s a bit bleak when none of the Skyhold gossip is about when he’s going to turn on us all.”

Cullen took a long breath of air. That was right. He wasn’t the only one worried about Dorian’s wellbeing. He was just the only one who couldn’t compartmentalise that worry in order to think rationally.

“Varric, thank you.”

The dwarf bowed slightly, teasing, trying to lift the mood back up. “It’s what I do.”

They parted ways after that, Varric leaving his office and Cullen, somewhat reluctantly, dragging himself up to the loft.

He slept for an entire day.

**oOoOo**

In the end there was simply no way to verify where Dorian might have been, so they were targeting the largest Red Templar stronghold in Emprise du Lion, a problem that had been reported to them multiple times from multiple sources but hadn’t yet made it to the top of the Inquisition’s investigation list. If Dorian was there, they were killing two birds with one stone, and even if he wasn’t, it would still be a serious blow to the enemy and their attempts at dominating the region.

Cullen tried not to think on how he might react if it turned out Dorian was somewhere else. It had been hard enough organising this offensive, he didn’t know if he’d be able to handle another.

The journey to Emprise du Lion was a tense one, Inquisition soldiers marching across the country in relative silence. It was awfully convenient of Dorian really, to have been captured during a threat to the world, because otherwise the political negotiations required to move this many military men from Ferelden to Orlais would have taken far too long. Cullen was trying to focus on the small positives, despite being deeply certain that there was no silver lining to this campaign whatsoever.

They reached the snowy region, set up camp for a single night, and stormed the Keep come daybreak.

While he’d been expecting the Templars and all their lyrium induced abominations, the giant was a surprise. Not a welcome one. And then came Imshael.

Truthfully, Cullen could have done without the Desire Demon. Their numbers were equal parts help and hindrance in the face of Imshael’s power, but Cullen had found his second wind when Imshael tried to sway him personally. The demon should have known better. Telling him Dorian was indeed inside the Keep only gave Cullen more reason to fight, not less. It helped him overcome the guilt he felt at having to knock unconscious several of the men under his command, those who had been bewitched and were hindering their progress.

Even without Imshael’s mental manipulation, the battle would have raged on for longer than Cullen was comfortable with. It wasn’t some run of the mill demon, it packed a serious punch. Wearing it down took longer than he could have imagined it would, but they got there in the end.

Cullen didn’t stick around to celebrate Imshael’s defeat. It was a grand accomplishment, sure, particularly without Inquisitor Trevelyan, but Imshael was secondary, his demise a means to an end. Dorian was here, at Suledin Keep - if Imshael was telling the truth; why would it, but more importantly why bother lying? - and Cullen was going to find him, even if he was the only one still fighting towards their original purpose.

His feet dragged as he searched the Keep. He kept his bloodstained sword out in front of him, despite the quivering in his muscles that threatened rebellion. Cullen was exhausted, but he refused to rest. And so he continued, one foot after the other, until finally he found him.

It was a cell half-hidden by rubble, though whether by accident or design it was hard to tell. The rubble didn’t block the cell door, and that was all Cullen cared about. He cursed when he got a proper look inside.

The cell was full to bursting with columns of sickly, humming crystals of red lyrium scaling the walls and towering menacingly over the cell’s sole occupant. They’d encountered some, growing sparsely throughout the Keep, but this was a truly horrifying amount. Cullen could feel it reaching out, trying to fog his mind, and he’d barely been there a minute. It had been four long weeks since Dorian’s capture.

Cullen stumbled to the bars, zeroing in on Dorian’s prone form. He was lying on the ground, as far away from the lyrium as he could get. The weeks of exposure hadn’t been kind to him. Cullen deduced the lyrium had been there from the start, as the cell wasn’t even well locked - held shut with a deadbolt on the outside. He slid the deadbolt across with fingers that shook slightly, and swung the door open. The hinges creaked loudly with the motion; Dorian flinched weakly.

Cullen rushed to his side, hands gentle but firm as he rolled Dorian over, trying to get the mage to look at him. Dorian’s skin was freezing, but not frozen; a small mercy - frostbite on top of everything else would have been too cruel.

“Dorian,” he called, softly as first, then louder. “Dorian, can you hear me? It’s Cullen. Please, open your eyes.”

His name drew a small sound from Dorian. Confusion, perhaps, or maybe denial. Had Imshael taunted him with whispers of rescue? He clenched his jaw, suddenly wishing the demon was still alive so he could kill it again, slowly and painfully. He regretted not dealing the finishing blow himself.

He shook himself. Imshael was dead, there was no point in dwelling on it. Cullen rested his hand gently against the side of Dorian’s face, thumb swiping back and forth across his prominent cheekbone.

“Dorian,” he called again, a tinge of desperation leaking into his voice. “Dorian, I’m going to get you out of here, but you have to open your eyes for me.”

Dorian’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

Conscious or not, Dorian was going to have to be carried from the Keep. Cullen wondered if he even had enough strength left to shift him out of the cell. Thankfully, one of the soldiers stumbled across them several minutes later. Together, they ferried Dorian away from Suledin Keep, hopefully never to return.

**oOoOo**

Dorian still hadn’t come to by the time they made it to the nearest Inquisition outpost. It worried Cullen immensely, but he tried to push it aside for the moment. Rest uninfluenced by red lyrium was probably what Dorian needed most for the time being, so Cullen decided to keep his panic at bay for a day or two. That was as long as his nerves would allow.

All of the Inquisition’s best healers were still at Skyhold. Cullen had been so focussed on amassing a fighting force to storm the Keep that he’d neglected to factor in the medical treatment that might have been needed afterwards. He ought to have been thankful that none of the soldiers had come off too badly from their attack. Instead he was furious that he’d put not only their, but Dorian’s, lives in excessive danger by not bringing anyone. Oversights cost lives. He knew that.

They stayed at the outpost for three days. Cullen tried to deny his own weariness, but even if he hadn’t been exhausted most of the soldiers he’d brought with him certainly were. He wanted to move Dorian back to Skyhold as soon as possible, regardless of - _because_ of - the fact that the mage had yet to wake up, but he couldn’t make the trip alone. So he waited, let them rest and recuperate. But three days was all he could manage.

They left a majority of the forces he amassed in Emprise du Lion, free to head back or seek reassignment on their own time. The smaller travelling party meant they made better time, though not by any significant amount.

**oOoOo**

Their return to Skyhold received little fanfare. Having sent a message ahead, they were greeted by two of the Inquisition’s healers, who immediately took Dorian into their possession. Cullen ached to go with them, but he, and the rest of his soldiers, were ordered, in no uncertain terms, to rest for twenty four hours, and not to invade the infirmary before then unless they were badly injured. Had it been anyone else issuing the order he would have snapped or protested, but Cullen had learned long ago not to argue with healers.

That didn’t mean he was going to trot off to bed.

While the soldiers split off into groups, most headed to either the tavern or the barracks, Cullen found himself wandering towards the garden. It felt wrong, being there when Dorian couldn’t, but it was still peaceful. People respected the tranquility of this particular area of Skyhold. It wasn’t a place of worship - no, that was behind one of the doors branching off from the garden - but the stillness was similar. No one would be asking him hard questions here.

Despite himself, he settled at the table where they usually played chess. The board was absent, squirreled away in Dorian’s quarters somewhere, and that helped. He could pretend it was just a table, and not a loaded space full of memories that might soon be ghosts.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

When the sun lowered in the sky, the Inquisitor found him. There was a limp in her step that lingered, even now, from a laceration which tore muscle. It might end up permanent. They were all going to come away from this with scars, one way or another.

She didn’t say anything, fingers ghosting across the back of his neck as she passed behind him, claiming the other chair. It was only then that Cullen remembered she too had played chess with Dorian here. Their eyes met across the table. Sad. Hopeful. Impatient. She reached her arm out towards him, and Cullen found himself meeting it, fingers tangling together, drawing strength from one another.

“They won’t let me see him either,” Marissa said softly. Her grip tightened, and Cullen gripped tighter back. She didn’t speak again. Neither of them slept.

**oOoOo**

They went together, when they were finally allowed into the infirmary. It wasn’t something they’d discussed, not verbally, it had just felt right. The two people who cared most about Dorian in all of Skyhold, leaning on each other and visiting together. Not to mention Cullen was slightly terrified of what they would be faced with once they got inside.

The Head Healer ushered them into a private room at the end of the infirmary. As far as Cullen was aware it was usually used as a break room of sorts for the healers, but they were happy enough to stop using it if a patient needed to be secluded from the rest of the room.

Dorian lay in the bed there, finally out of his worn, frayed leathers. The healer let them be without a word. Marissa took one side of the bed and Cullen took the other. Usually he’d be self-conscious in a situation like this, but he’d come to some sort of instinctual understanding with the Inquisitor the night before, and all his emotions were bubbling away right beneath the surface.

A sickly tinge remained, Dorian’s golden skin paler than it should have been, but when Cullen touched the back of his hand his skin was no longer anywhere near freezing. It was a start. Cullen lifted Dorian’s hand, and clung to it not unlike how he had clung to Marissa the previous evening. Best friend, more, less, it didn’t matter. He’d sort that all out later. All he had now was worry.

In the silence of the room, Marissa hummed.

**oOoOo**

As it turned out, neither of them was present when Dorian did regain consciousness. It was coming on a full week since their return to Skyhold, war council meetings were being held solely by Leliana and Josephine if they had to be held at all, and Marissa and Cullen could often be found in depressive silence together about the stronghold. Work was still accomplished, and missions assigned, but neither had stepped foot outside the walls since then.

News filtered to them slowly. Dorian had cycled from awake to asleep to awake again by the time a messenger found them, both of them tucked away in Dorian’s corner of the library, trying and failing to focus on their respective duties. A dark cloud hung over the both of them, and it didn’t dissipate when the message was relayed. Awake didn’t mean better, it didn’t mean safe. There was nothing they could do but investigate and wait.

**oOoOo**

The healer didn’t want them both visiting at once. She was wary of overwhelming Dorian. The thought floated uncomfortably through Cullen’s mind, but two people wasn’t _so_ bad, and if they gave in they’d have to decide who would go first; logic would dictate Marissa should, she’d been friends with him for longer, but Cullen knew that would ache, and sharing was better, easier.

Dorian was sitting up when they were let in. Cullen felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight. He’d been practically comatose for two long weeks, and negative thoughts had been overwhelming the both of them. Marissa choked back a gasp, covering it with a shaky grin and teary eyes. Cullen let her approach first, coming round the side of the bed as he stayed back.

It was the distance that allowed Cullen to notice it, the way Dorian flinched back from Marissa’s touch. It was only for a moment, just the first movement, unexpected or unwanted, before Dorian caught himself and allowed her touch, but it was there. If Marissa noticed, she ignored it, kneeling on the edge of the bed and embracing him softly. Her lips pressed momentarily into a thin, unhappy line when she pulled back, but just like Dorian she quickly masked it.

“I’m so relieved you’re awake,” she said once she was standing once more. Cullen noticed how she avoided saying “okay” or “all right”. They both sounded fake in his head, and would have sounded equally false aloud. Dorian wasn’t okay. But he was awake.

“Yes,” Dorian responded slowly, voice rough and weak from a long period of disuse. “Well, too much beauty sleep is bad for one’s health. I had to stop eventually.” The snark lacked its usual bite, the wit there but hesitant, as though it were a struggle.

Marissa laughed, but it was hollow. Cullen could tell, and it seemed Dorian could too. She took two steps away from the bed, fingers plucking at her sleeve cuffs.

“I have to speak with Leliana,” she announced, expression blank but voice wavering. She walked out of the room in a rush. Cullen would check on her, later, but for now he didn’t want to leave.

Cullen sat himself in the chair beside Dorian’s bed, unsure of what exactly he’d come to say. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to say much of anything. He looked down at his hands in his lap, trying mostly in vain to figure out something to say.

“Commander,” Dorian called, voice softer and more docile than it should ever be.

He glanced up. Dorian was watching him. For the first time Cullen noticed that his eyes were red; not from sleep, or tears, but from the lyrium.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” The words slipped from his lips without thought, but Cullen didn’t try and take them back. Dorian blinked slowly, smirking just slightly. From this distance Cullen could see the tremble in Dorian’s lips.

“I’ve had worse,” he said, still soft, a little scratchy, but bitter now. “But yes, it is a rather unfortunate agony.”

Now that Cullen was really, truly looking, he could see Dorian’s fingers shaking too. He could pretend and deflect all he wanted, but he was still in a bad way.

Trying not to think too hard, Cullen took Dorian’s hands into his own, staring down at them as fragmented sentences chased each other through his mind.

“If I had my way,” Cullen began, looking down and avoiding Dorian’s eyes, “You would never go near another Red Templar again.” He sighed softly, the grip he had on Dorian’s hands becoming surer. “But you would never allow that. You are, of course, no damsel in distress. You don’t need to be protected, though this whole mess has rather made me wish I could just keep you here instead of watching you go off, undoubtedly headed for more battle.”

Dorian’s fingers twitched in Cullen’s hold, trying and failing to return the pressure. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, as though carefully considering each and every word before allowing it to be heard.

“If Corypheus met his end tomorrow, and you wished to lock me away in the library forevermore, my protests would be mostly empty words. This constant engagement in battle is not something I would have chosen for myself, but before I can choose to stop, there has to be a world for me to live in.” He tapered off, giving a low, dark laugh. “As things stand I may be useless for some time. I can’t guard Marissa’s back if I can’t stop this blasted shaking.”

Cullen looked up at that, meeting Dorian’s gaze head-on. Dorian was obviously trying to downplay whatever ill effects the lyrium continued to have on him, but he was still being more honest about it than Cullen might have expected. The mage hated showing weakness, and not being at his best was certainly a weakness. He would be experiencing Cullen’s withdrawal symptoms to the extreme, not to mention any other ill effects from the lyrium itself.

“It may take time, but you will mend. I believe that.” Cullen held Dorian’s gaze unwaveringly, staring deep into their depths, ignoring the sting of discomfort that their crimson glaze instilled in him. “And when you’re back on two feet you’ll keep Marissa in check, and she will watch over you in turn. We will defeat Corypheus, seal every remaining rift in Thedas, and then things will be peaceful.” He paused, shrugged when Dorian raised a disbelieving brow. “Well, comparatively.”

“A pretty picture. But how long will it take?”

“I don’t know.”

Cullen fell silent for a long moment, trying to read the expression on Dorian’s face. It was more open than usual, perhaps a lingering tinge of fever disrupting the careful walls Dorian usually kept in place - or something had happened to tear them into irreparable pieces while Cullen wasn’t around to fix things. Dorian was watching him with a certain sense of astonishment. There was fondness, deeper and more obvious than usual, and a flicker of confusion, lurking almost out of sight. That was to be expected, Cullen supposed, for this was the most touching, the most talk of feelings, that they had ever partaken in together. There was no point stopping now.

“Forgive me if this is too presumptuous, or if I’m overstepping my boundaries, but you will not be going this alone. Marissa, I believe, feels guilty - you know how she gets - but once you’ve knocked some sense into her she’ll be back here by your side, steadfast as always.”

Cullen paused again. There was a chance he was about to make a fool of himself, particularly as he wasn’t completely sure what he wanted to accomplish from this confession of sorts. But he was listening to his heart today, not the doubts in his head, and his heart knew that he wanted to hold Dorian close, protect him from the world, to keep him safe always. The least he could do was honour that feeling, give it a voice.

“I, too, will stand by you in this, and after. That is, if you will have me.”

With the words out his courage fled, and Cullen looked back down at their clasped hands.

“Oh, Cullen, you truly are far too endearing for your own good.”

Dorian shifted, carefully but with purpose. He was still physically weak - though Cullen didn’t doubt he would soon be complaining about being confined to bedrest - so it took him a little by surprise. His fingers slipped from Cullen’s grasp, one hand going to the bed to steady himself, the other coming up to rest on Cullen’s shoulder.

“I told myself this was a bad idea,” Dorian confessed, “that it was an impossible dream. But if you tempt me I couldn’t possibly resist. Not you. _Amatus_.” He breathed the last word in soft Tevene against Cullen’s lips, leaning close, not touching but oh so near. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Cullen took a shaky breath. His heart was beating impossibly loud in his chest. This was not, necessarily, what he’d come to do, but it was not at all unwelcome. His fingers curled in the blanket, eyes flickering between Dorian’s eyes and lips.

“Kiss me.”

Dorian smiled, the truest smile Cullen had ever seen him wear, and closed the gap.

They would talk about it later, behind thicker walls, away from curious ears. For now, they indulged in each other’s company, together and in one piece, the beginning of something new.

**oOoOo**

The taint of lyrium never left Dorian completely. Even long months later, at certain angles and beneath the right lighting, Cullen could still see that sheen of red, a lingering reminder of what might have been. He never mentioned it to Dorian, and he could only assume that, as the person in Skyhold who spent the most time staring into those eyes, he was the only one to have noticed. If Dorian knew, he didn’t say anything either.

In some ways Cullen supposed it was self-preservation. A fear that, if pointed out, that knowledge might disrupt their relationship, the balance they currently possessed. They had enough to worry about already. In truth, Cullen was mildly apprehensive that Dorian would lose himself in research, trying to find ways to rid himself of it, that last physically obvious sign of his capture and exposure.

So if he held Dorian a little tighter, pressed soft kisses to his forehead, whenever he saw those flashes of red, well, no one needed to know.


End file.
